Love, Sharon
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Ficlet/drabble series. Written for 'the other Sharon' prompt on mc mothership comm on LJ. Small things elicit memories.
1. Memory One: The Zoo

"Why don't we go out this weekend?"

"What do you mean?" Rusty asked without looking up from his laptop, where he was supposedly doing research for a school project, but in reality was checking his Facebook feed yet again. Sharon hoped the security measures Lieutenant Tao had helped her with were sufficient.

"I thought we could make some plans; visit an art gallery, or a museum."

He looked up then. "Plans you can break?" he unexpectedly growled.

"No-"

"That's just stupid." To her surprise, Rusty slammed his laptop shut and jumped up, his face reddening. "What's the point?" he sneered. "We make plans, pack our stuff, and we're halfway to the car when your cellphone rings. And there's another dead body in Griffith Park. 'Sorry Rusty. We'll do this another time.' No. It's just better we don't bother at all."

Sharon pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that there isn't always that possibility. My job..."

"Well, your job sucks."

"That's-"

"You know what? You're just like her. You think you're not. But you are."

Rusty stomped out of the living room and soon after she heard the shower running.

Sharon entered the kitchen, pulling out the makings of their dinner from the fridge with jerky movements.

She'd just finished making a salad when Rusty finally returned, his hair damp. Without a word, he placed cutlery, condiments and two glasses of water on the table.

A few minutes later, they were sitting opposite each other, eating. It was Rusty who broke the silence first. "I wouldn't mind going to Venice Beach," he confessed quietly.

"We could," she replied carefully.

Then, he met her hesitant look with a smile. "Just not the zoo. I don't want to go to the zoo."

Sharon readily returned that smile. "Okay, no zoo," she agreed.


	2. Memory Two: Breakfast

Rusty frowned at the bowl Sharon handed him. "We had this yesterday," he whined.

She sat down with her own bowl of cereal.

"You eat the same thing every morning?"

"Uh-huh," she murmured, opening up her laptop.

"There's no mornings you wake up and say, 'Hey, I might go crazy today, waffles it is'?"

She looked up from the morning headlines. "Waffles?" she repeated with a shake of her head.

"Pancakes? Bacon? Eggs?"

Cooking had never been one of her strong points; Sharon Beck was probably a whizz in the kitchen.

"What did your mom usually cook you for breakfast?"

"Pop tarts," Rusty deadpanned. He swung his chair back onto two legs before continuing, "At least she bought different flavors now and then. You don't ever want anything different?"

"No," she replied primly, resisting the urge to scold him regarding the furniture and his injured leg. "After I find something I like, I usually stick with it," she said softly.

He blinked, righted his chair with a loud clunk, and picked up his spoon to continue eating.

She was sipping her tea when he finally spoke again. "Can we buy some coffee?"

"No."

"Mom let me drink coffee all the time."

"She also offered you pop tarts," she snapped. Then, she took a deep calming breath. "This is my home, and therefore-"

"Your rules." He stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder. "I've heard that before. From my _real_ mom."

She watched him go. With a sigh she rose and rinsed off their bowls before placing them in the dishwasher.

On the side of her fridge was a grocery list. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she added 'maple syrup' to it. If she was going to cook pancakes on her next day off, she'd better buy some.


	3. Memory Three: Her Name

Rusty slunk into Sharon's office and slouched in front of her desk. Picking up the nameplate sitting on the desk's edge, he annoyingly flipped it from one hand to the other, as if it was a ball. Even when she gave him a pointed look of irritation, he kept up the movement.

"You're early," she said sourly.

"Gym class."

She nodded, all her anger momentarily forgotten when she thought of his injuries.

"You have a nickname?" he asked suddenly. He twisted the nameplate around until her own neatly engraved name and title were facing her. "Something other than Captain Raydor. But not Sharon," he added quickly. "Something other than my mom's name."

"No."

"See, my mom, she had this one friend who called her Becca. From our surname, Beck, get it?"

Sharon took a deep breath. "Yes, I get it," she drawled. "No, I don't have any nickname."

"It's just weird. I'm so used to saying it to her and-"

Sharon interrupted. "But surely you called your mother 'mom'."

"Sometimes she liked people to think I was her brother, you know, so she got me to call her Sharon. She was real worried about being single after she turned 30, but I guess that doesn't bother you, right?"

"I'm not single, I'm separated," she said carefully.

"Yeah, and you're way over 30 anyway."

"Yes," she murmured dryly.

"You don't care? That you're your age and alone?"

"Well," she said softly, "I'm not really alone, am I?" She smiled and held his gaze for a long moment.

"Well, yeah." He replaced the nameplate onto her desk with a clatter. "I'd better go and start my homework," he muttered.

As he opened her office door she thought he quietly sighed, 'Thanks Sharon'.

But, _at her age_, she might have been hearing things.


End file.
